


似曾相識

by mariya



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 23:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15399924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariya/pseuds/mariya
Summary: Junhui's body is never recovered from the sea. As if in recompense, Minghao meets Soonyoung in Hong Kong months later.





	似曾相識

_似曾相識_ _(Cantonese)_ \- faintly familiar, of two people who seem to have met before

 

 

 

 

 

At 0200 hours, Horizon Brave winked off the navigation map. The Kaiju signature held strong, blinking with every sweep of the tracking system, before disappearing too. 

The Kaiju was the first of its kind. A category four rising like a skyscraper from hell, stronger and faster than any of its predecessors.

By the time the helicopters arrived, Horizon Brave laid dead in the water twenty miles from the drop site. The helicopters followed the traces of battle up Hong Kong’s coastal waters, a long streak of electric Kaiju blood running parallel to the coast. Up ahead, a dark shape crouched low in the waters.

The helicopters shined their lights straight into the hollow of her chest half-submerged in the South China Sea. Entombed in metal, blood, and the sea, Minghao stared straight up at the blinding lights shining through the shattered conn-pod. Just Minghao.

Neither Junhui or the Kaiju ever resurface.

 

                                            

 

 

 

Somehow, as the war steadily worsened, the canteen food improved. It was a fucked up, inverse equation Junhui discovered after doing controlled tests on the egg tarts. He called it the  _Daan Taat_ Index. Once the  _daan taat_ got really good, like, to the point of tears, Junhui joked that three Kaiju were gonna burst out of the rift, and this time no one would be able to stop them.

After Lima and losing two nuclear cores to the power plant meltdown, the egg tarts came out with a perfect yolk to water balance, not the firm custard they were cranking out before, and after Washington was leveled so perfectly you could balance a spirit level on the earth without disturbance, the bakers improved the crust. It came out delicate with a crunch, no longer melted on the tongue like Kaiju acid on metal.

Minghao stood in front of the desserts, staring blankly at the egg tarts. They looked prettier. Junhui was full of criticism, but also understanding. Yes, they were too oily, but it was hard to make  _daan taat_. You had to strike the perfect balance between yolk and water, custard and crust, delicate and firm, and the fact that it was on the menu at all was a godsend.

The lunch crowd flowed around him. Minghao felt someone staring at him, but when he looked up he couldn’t immediately find who it was; the lunch crowd was too thick to see through, and everyone had their eyes focused down on their trays. It wasn’t until he turned his head to the side that he saw who was staring at him, but only for a split second.

The man stood away from the crowd. He was wearing a blue J-tech uniform with a patch above his breast, no doubt there was a matching one on his back. A star flanked by two halves of a winged eagle and sandwiched between  _CHERNO ALPHA_ in Russian.

They held eye contact, a peculiar sense of déjà vu gripping Minghao. The man looked familiar, but most people at the Shatterdome did. The base wasn’t all that big, but still, Minghao wouldn’t forget a face like that. Word was, Cherno’s crew was comprised solely of straight tens, and with a mind to match the face.

Minghao didn’t even realize he left his tray in front of the dessert section until after the lunch crowd jostled him away. When he looked back, the man was gone, and so were all the  _daan taat._ He stood unblinkingly in the canteen until the crowd thinned, then got back in line all over again, because he wasn’t sure what else to do with himself.

If he wasn’t lingering in the canteen or lying in bed waiting to be crushed beneath the weight of his own heart, he was in the Jaeger staging area recreating the awe he felt when he first looked up at Horizon Brave. She was China’s miracle child. Their very first Jaeger, rising from the frozen wasteland of Kodiak Island.

Minghao stared way up at Cherno Alpha. He stood a distance away, didn’t have the clearance to be at her feet, but even from here he had to angle his head all the way back. She loomed coldly over the staging area. She wasn’t his, he knew that. It wasn’t like he was pining, though if there was ever something to pine over, it was definitely Horizon Brave even if she hadn’t been much of a looker. She was clunky and painted a rusted gold but handled like a dream. Was so responsive it felt like they were 73-meters tall and throwing the punch themselves.

But ultimately it didn’t matter, because she was hauled straight from the sea to the Jaeger dump in California. One look and the Marshal knew she wasn’t worth repairing. Her nuclear core was missing altogether, so was an arm and a leg. What had seemed to be indestructible was torn apart in minutes, limb by limb. Pilot by pilot.

Minghao blinked furiously up at Cherno, one hand reaching up to clutch his quickening heart. From the haze of his mind, he heard someone clear their throat, no doubt about to kick him out for trespassing.

Lots of shit happened during the three weeks he was comatose. He missed Junhui’s funeral, Horizon Brave was decommissioned, and worst of all,  _worst of all,_ his clearance level dropped to about ass-high, and now he only had access to the canteen and break room.

He took an extra few seconds to commit Cherno into memory, then turned away from her. It was the man from the canteen. He held a welding mask under his arm and pulled off his gloves finger by finger as he walked toward him.

The sound of Junhui nearly fucking blinded him— _you’re so hot it_ ** _hurts_** _me._

Minghao tried to see the man past Junhui’s thoughts, but they clung to him with every step he took. Antepenultimate, Junhui going,  _I’ll never forget you._ Penultimate,  _I’ll never forget how I feel about you._ And the last step.

“I’m Quan Shunrong,” the man said, reaching out a hand, the curve of his smile warm but solemn.

Minghao slowly took his hand, the heat of Soonyoung’s palm sealing the memory into reality. “Yes, I know.”

His smile turned sheepish. “Right.”

Minghao stared at him until he squirmed, so slight he would have missed it unless he knew what to look for.

“I was working up there,” Soonyoung said quickly, trying to keep the conversation going. He pointed up at the scaffolding attached to the catwalk where a team of mechanics repaired Cherno’s chest plate. “And I saw you down here, so I thought I’d come say hi.”

“I saw you at the canteen too, didn’t I?”

“You saw me?”

“Of course. Were you hiding?”

Now, Soonyoung really squirmed. “I wasn’t hiding.”

Minghao smiled. It felt fake after not smiling for a while. “Don’t be shy next time.”

Someone on the scaffolding waved and yelled for Soonyoung. He waved back, telling them to wait just a second. He turned back to Minghao. “Sorry, I gotta get back to work. Let’s talk more next time.”

“Okay,” Minghao said, watching Soonyoung walk away backwards to his station. “See you.”

 

 

 

 

 

What could you do with a broken pilot? Fix them, piece them back together, put them back to work. But ultimately, a broken pilot was no better than a dead one. A broken pilot spent the rest of their life chasing what they lost.

As part of his recovery program, Minghao met weekly with a psychiatric evaluator. He liked Dr. Jeon. There were some people you couldn’t help but just be charmed by, not because they were charming, but because their intelligence drew you in. An intelligence that was giving, not obnoxious or manipulative.

Dr. Jeon pressed down the binding of his notebook until the pages laid flat on the table. He held a pen in his right hand, a thin silver piece with his last name engraved along the side.

Minghao kept his hands folded on the table, eyes downcast. “Sometimes I’ll find a strand of Junhui’s hair and I can’t bear to throw it away.” He squeezed his hands together. “I want to preserve what I have of him, the physicality of him. I want to keep everything he once touched.”

“His body was never recovered,” Dr. Jeon said slowly. “Perhaps you’re fixating on preserving his belongings to make up for a disruption in your grieving process.”

Minghao kept his eyes wide open. If he blinked, he would start crying. He knew he would. In the back of his mind, he also knew he never used to be this sensitive. Junhui cried four times the amount he did in a year.

“Grief feels a lot more substantial than it used to. I’m not one to grieve like this. When I lost my family, I didn’t react like this. This grief is like tunnel vision,” he said, mouth twisted painfully.

Dr. Jeon wrote something down in his notebook. His handwriting was plain and legible. “It’s significant you’re marking a difference between the feelings you experienced in the past and the feelings you’re experiencing now. Are you suggesting the difference has to do with the neural bridge?”

“Yes,” Minghao said hollowly. “I feel different.”

“It’s hard to say what exactly is going on until we have more data. You’re the first to experience the loss of a co-pilot and we still don’t know the side effects of that loss, especially since you were forcibly removed from the neural bridge.”

“It feels hopeless then.” Minghao ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

“How you grieve, how you process emotions, maybe that’s a little different now. But you still have the power to influence what happens from here on out, Minghao. You are very much in control.”

Minghao smiled, bitter. “You have a lot of faith in me, doctor.”

Dr. Jeon smiled back, small but kind as he peacefully closed his notebook. “It isn’t faith. It’s an observation.”

 

 

 

 

 

Predictably, Minghao failed his psych evaluation.

If he failed again, that was it. He’d be suspended from active duty for at least a year. No more piloting—though, to be honest, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. The mere thought of getting in another Jaeger with someone else was crippling.

Minghao stared blankly up at the ceiling of his room, each tick of the clock steadily grinding away at his nerves until he gave up on sleep and dragged himself out of bed. He sighed and put on a sweater. If it wasn’t the clock disturbing him, it was the humming. He couldn’t hear it in the living quarters until settling down for the night, then the buzz of fluorescent lights and electricity seeped through the metal walls, this ominous low hum moths beat themselves to death against.

He stepped out into the hallway, quietly closing the heavy door to his room behind him. He took to wandering the Shatterdome at night. There wasn’t really anywhere else to go. Even when Junhui was alive, they rarely went offshoring. Most of their free time was spent sparing, or just fucking staring at each other, trying to see how deep this neural bond went.

Without realizing it, Minghao found himself in front of the breakroom. He stared at the door handle.

Memories of Junhui laid in the most harmless of places. He stopped going to places outside his regular route, because undoubtedly it meant meeting Junhui.

Like now, with his hand on the door handle, he could see it clearly, the Junhui in his mind laying his cheek on the large plastic table in the middle of the breakroom, a cup of earl grey steaming in front of him. It took a miserable month on base until Junhui was at peace living without the tea he was used to having at home. The white man’s tea just perplexed him.

 _I’m trying to understand what the English went to war over,_ he said, pulling at his hair.  _They got China hooked on opium and went to war_ ** _twice_** _for this. I wouldn’t get out of bed for this._

Minghao squeezed his eyes shut, feeling Junhui rattling around in his head, feeling it was so real that, if he opened the door, he would see Junhui sitting at the table like usual, eyes lighting up the moment he saw Minghao. 

He wanted to see him again, just one more time. He opened the door.

Inside, the coffee pot burbled. The tea packets were undisturbed in their neat boxes stacked on the counter, and Soonyoung had his feet kicked up on the table as he reclined in one of the crappy metal foldout chairs. A stack of papers was fanned out neatly over the table, leaving just enough space for an empty cup anticipating coffee. He had a spoon in his mouth. In his hand—Minghao squinted.

In his hand, he held half a mango.

Soonyoung looked up, surprised, and popped the spoon out of his mouth. He sat properly and settled the chair on the ground. “Minghao?”

Minghao was equally surprised but didn’t show it. “It’s late. Are you on beta shift?”

“Yeah,” Soonyoung said, staring a beat too long. “Wanna keep me company?”

“Won’t I distract you?”

“Oh man, please give me a reason not to work.”

Minghao scanned the room. Everything was exactly the same. The pool table in the corner was still missing two balls, and the green felt was looking dirtier than usual. As far as breakrooms went, this was one of the more popular ones since it had a working coffee pot.

And Soonyoung, apparently. Eating a mango. 

“Will you stay if I give you this mango?”

Minghao laughed. “You must think I’m cheap, huh? You can’t bribe me with one-third a mango.”

“Try it before you say no,” Soonyoung said, already scoring the yellow-orange honey mango in the palm of his hand. “The lady gave me a discount and so I bought thirty. This is lucky number twenty.”

He bent the peel back and popped out the mango. He cut it perfectly. Just deep enough to hit the peel but shallow enough leave it unscored. He reached an arm across the table, the color of the mango so bright and cheerful that Minghao couldn’t help but take it from Soonyoung’s hand. This heart-shaped, teardrop of a fruit.

“Wow,” Minghao said, just fucking stunned someone would buy thirty mangos with only access to a mini-fridge. “Now I really have to try this.”

The last time he had a honey mango, the world was still in its proper orientation. His dad used to come home in the summer with a case of these slender mangoes made for the grip of the hand. He’d cut off either side of the mango, score it, and leave them for Minghao while he ate the fruit off the pit. They’d eat together over the sink. It became Minghao’s earliest idea of what love was and what love could be.

Now, as an adult, he ate the same honey mango. It was hard to forget the taste of a mango, so distinct with its sweetness, tartness, and fragrance, but lately food had no taste. He ate because he had to, there was nothing else he could do, but he ate sparingly. He was down eight pounds ever since he was released from med bay. But this mango was so movingly sweet, the kind of taste that could bring a man back to life.

“Good huh?”

“Yeah,” Minghao said, fighting the emotion building in his throat. “It’s really good.”

Soonyoung cut him another one. Minghao watched his hands. A little rough from work, but good and steady. A pair of mechanic hands were trustworthy; Cherno Alpha was in good hands. 

“Sometimes I’m surprised food still tastes so good,” Soonyoung said, eyes cast downward as he placed two scored mango halves in front of Minghao. “It’s stupid, but it’s hard for me to reconcile the destruction with good food, you know what I mean? Like, each time something terrible happens I think there’s no way this is gonna taste good, no fucking way, and each time it’s delicious.”

Minghao stared hard at the mango without blinking. “It’s not stupid. It’s hard to enjoy things after trauma. It feels weird and out of place, and a little inappropriate.”

He narrowed his eyes and paused for a second before continuing. “I ask myself: is it okay to enjoy these things when every month another city is destroyed? But how else do we survive? In the end, all we can ask for is the ability to find relief and enjoyment in something as simple as a mango. That’s where we get hope from.” 

When he looked up, he saw that Soonyoung was giving him this weird look. A little watery, but sincere. It struck Minghao right in the heart.

“Then let’s eat more,” Soonyoung said, dead serious.

Minghao bit into the mango. The sour-sweetness spread all the way to the back of his tongue. “I’m eating already.”

“I mean—lychee are in season. They’re so ripe you can smell them through their shells, so let’s have lychee next time.”

“You can use my fridge, if you want. If you end up buying thirty bags.”

“You’re offering me, a stranger, complete and unrestricted access to your fridge?”

Minghao smiled against the curve of the mango. “You’re not a stranger. I’m gonna have to tell you a lot about myself to make up for the shit I know about you.”

Soonyoung buried his face in his hands and groaned. “Oh no.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. I accidentally fell off a treadmill in front of my crush too.”

“Really?”

Minghao laughed. “No.”

When the mangoes were eaten and the peels were thrown away, Minghao watched Soonyoung get back to work. He lingered a bit, watching Soonyoung examine Cherno’s schematics. The incessant humming from the hallway combined with the sound of shuffling papers soothed him; it had been awhile since he shared this kind of peace with someone.

Soonyoung twirled his pen around his fingers once, twice, and then gripped it loosely and made a note on the page. Subconsciously, Minghao tightened a hand on his upper arm. Outside, the buzzing seemed to get louder.

He thought of Junhui’s belongings he kept in the bottommost drawer of his dresser. Junhui hadn’t owned much except for an impressive collection of sweaters, a photo album, and some miscellaneous items. These all went to Minghao, the sole beneficiary of Junhui’s belongings, and from there they went into the drawer. Every single bit. Even the razor Junhui threw away the morning he died, Minghao awoke three weeks later and fished it out from the trashcan.

Minghao carefully pushed back his chair. “I better go now. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Soonyoung looked up. Minghao’s heart constricted from the utter kindness of his face. “Of course. Take care of yourself.”

 

 

 

 

 

Junhui amassed a collection of sweaters after Kojiyama made landfall in Guangdong and scorched the land it walked, all the way to Shenzhen. There was nothing he could do except watch on television as the military tried to strike it down with missiles and guns, but Kojiyama was built like a motherfucker, boasting armor so thick napalm bombs just set it on fire without taking it out. It tracked fire across Guangdong for thirty miles.

By the time they took Kojiyama down, Junhui’s calls hadn’t gone through for days. He couldn’t get out of bed. As a son, he knew he’d never find his family. As a soldier, he knew the probability.

When he finally got out of bed, he pulled on a sweater, and never wore short sleeves again. Minghao only saw Junhui’s tattoos when he came straight out of the shower and naked into the bedroom to get dressed. If he had been even a little more coordinated, Minghao would’ve never seen his tattoos again.

Minghao kneeled and slowly pulled out the bottom drawer. He held a sweater tightly in his hands. Sometimes he’d find strands of Junhui’s hair woven through the knit. He had a small collection of that, too. He didn’t care if it made him look like a serial killer or some kind of occult enthusiast, he wasn’t about to lose a single thing Junhui left behind.

He buried his nose in Junhui’s sweater, the scent long gone, leaving only the hollow musk of the cabinet.

 

  

 

 

 

That same week, Minghao met Soonyoung at the canteen. He was eating by himself. It was one in the afternoon, a little late to be eating lunch, but here he was, one hand holding chopsticks and the other flipping the page of a document.

Minghao placed his tray in front of Soonyoung and sat down. “You shouldn’t read and eat at the same time, you’ll get a stomachache.”

Soonyoung looked up. Minghao saw the slow recognition in his eyes, and then Soonyoung smiled. He closed the document to make more space for him, returning it to its manila folder. He looked happy. “Hey!"

Minghao couldn’t help but return Soonyoung’s joy. “Why are you eating so late?”

“I lost track of time. What’s your excuse?”

“I eat at odd times,” Minghao said as he picked up his chopsticks. He ate sparsely and rarely. Today was a rare occurrence. Today, he actually came to eat more than one meal.

“Oh,” Soonyoung said, looking down at his tray. “Well, you came at a good time today. The  _suk mai gang_ is really good.”

Just then, Minghao made eye contact with a man pacing through the canteen doors. They stared at each other for a brief second, Minghao narrowing his eyes, before the man scurried away.

His name was Newton Geizler. A white guy. People called him Newt for short like the salamander, except unlike the noble salamander, Newt was a drain on earth’s precious resources.

They both hated him. Junhui always said Newt had the emotional sensitivity of a turd, otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten all those Kaiju tattoos. People were still mourning their dead and missing when this asshole showed up with a Knifehead sleeve, and the flames hadn’t even died in Los Angeles when Yamarashi appeared on his left arm.

It was inconceivable that Junhui died and Newt got to live. Went to show the world didn’t operate in equilibrium, in fairness.

“Have you seen that guy with the Kaiju tattoos?” 

Soonyoung rolled his eyes. “Yeah, who hasn’t?”

Minghao watched Soonyoung eat. He had a good appetite, it was nice to watch someone enjoy their meal when he hadn’t for such a long time. “Should we take his skin?”

Soonyoung’s eyes bulged, and then he was laughing, covering his mouth with his free hand.

“What?” Minghao said, grinning too. “I’m serious. Dude doesn’t deserve skin if he’s gonna use it to be a dick. If he’s so smart, he can artificially grow some new skin.”

“I’m pretty sure that’ll get us both discharged.”

“I’m friends with the Marshal.”

“I don’t think that’ll be enough to exonerate us.”

Minghao perked up. “You said us.”

“ _You._ I meant you.” All the same, Soonyoung kept on laughing. “What is wrong with you?”

 _I don’t know,_ Minghao wanted to say.  _I fell 73 meters into the ocean. I was in a coma for three weeks. My best friend is dead, and when I woke up, you were here._

Thankfully, Minghao didn’t have to say anything. Soonyoung looked pointedly down at Minghao’s untouched tray. “Anyway, you have to eat.” 

Minghao obediently spooned soup into his mouth. Soonyoung was right, the soup was delicious. The perfect balance of sweet and savory. 

“If it makes you feel any better, his tattoo artist did a terrible job.”

“All the more reason to take his skin.”

Soonyoung just sucked the sauce off his chopsticks, trying not to grin. They spoke comfortably. Minghao filled in the four-year gap in his memory of Soonyoung. After Junhui transferred to Hong Kong, Soonyoung got picked up a year later by Nagasaki’s Shatterdome and stayed there for three years before coming to Hong Kong as part of an internal promotion.

With his mouth pillowed in the palm of his hand, he watched Soonyoung eat a  _lau saa baau_ decorated with a cute pink dot on top. Soonyoung tore into the bread with his fingers, tilting his head to catch the runny yolk filling in his mouth.

Minghao said, “If you’re still tattooing, will you be my tattoo artist?”

Soonyoung looked away from his dessert, clearly surprised. The yolk ran down his hand. Realizing something warm was dripping into his palm, he quickly licked it off.

“I’m sorry,” Minghao said, pushing forward a napkin. “Was I not supposed to know?” 

Soonyoung took the napkin and wiped his palm. “No. I mean, of course you’d know. I just…didn’t expect to be asked that here. By you. And to be honest, I’m a little out of touch.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to. I respect that.”

Soonyoung smiled. “I want to, for you. If you’re free tomorrow, let’s talk about it.”

“Are you sure?” 

He stuffed the whole bread into his mouth and chewed behind the napkin, nodding. He gave Minghao his room number and they agreed to meet at seven.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Minghao’s looked up at Soonyoung as he stood. It had been so long since he made plans with another person, and so he had to repeat, “Tomorrow at seven,” just to make sure it was real.

 

 

 

 

  

Sometimes things jumped out in the drift. It was like fish jumping out of the water. You’d just be minding your own business, trying to get through the immersion, and a memory shaped like a beautiful, silvery carp jumped right out of the water and into your hands. And because it was so beautiful, so shiny, you just had to look at it.

Of course, Minghao knew when to release it back into the water. He was good at that, and Junhui was even better at thinking such ridiculous one-liners that caught Minghao’s attention. 

_If I pray for a bak gwai, am I praying to Jesus? Is there a universal code for praying?_

_…_

_Drake is a coward and a hypocrite._

_…_  

_If I die, Minghao gets the tea set and Soonyoung gets the tea tray._

So, as per Junhui’s request, Minghao arrived with a gift. He cleaned the dust off the tray and slipped it back into its original packaging, and carefully placed the tea set and a pack of tea into a paper bag. He offered the box to Soonyoung the moment he opened the door.

“Hi,” he said, both hands holding the box. “Junhui wanted you to have this.”

Soonyoung stared unblinkingly at the characters on the box as he slowly took it into his hands. “Thank you,” he said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat and shook it off. “Should we have some tea?”

Minghao lifted up the paper bag. Inside, the ceramic set clinked gently. “Yeah. I got the other half of his gift.”

Inside, Soonyoung’s room was bare, therefore easy to keep clean. It seemed unlike the Soonyoung he knew in his head, who was  _messy_. Four years was enough to witness a miracle. Maybe Junhui would’ve been pleasantly surprised because four years hadn’t been enough to change his own living habits.

“Sit down.” Soonyoung motioned to the table as he got the electric kettle going. 

Together, they set up the table for tea. Minghao took out the tea set and Soonyoung got out the tea tray. It was this gorgeous heavy red-brown tea tray, simple in its design and gorgeous in its simplicity. Soonyoung knew it was something to be appreciated. He held it up to the light, sliding the palm of his hand over the gleaming edges.

“Thank you,” Soonyoung said, reverently placing it upon the table. His mouth had that twisted look, like he was holding back tears.

Minghao watched his hands slide away from the tray. There were faint gray streaks on the inside of his palms, no doubt oil he was unable to wash away. “You already thanked me.”

Soonyoung smiled. Small and pained. “Once wasn’t enough.”

For a long time, it was hard to imagine anyone shared his grief. Suddenly it wasn’t so hard anymore.

“I should be the one to thank you,” he said. “For having tea with me.”

Soonyoung’s smile turned real. “Hard to believe no one’s tripping over themselves to have tea with you.”

“I’m old news, ge. Have you seen the Wei Tang brothers?” Minghao pretended to swoon.

“You’re right, I wanna have tea with  _them._ Forget about you, there’s three of them.” 

Minghao laughed, hard. “The water’s ready.”

Soonyoung grinned as he emptied the pack of  _tieguanyin_ into the small clay pot and filled it with hot water. He waited a moment and poured the tea. Easily, steadily. The smell of the tea spread throughout the room, fresh and slightly floral. It gripped Minghao’s stomach, bringing him back months ago when Junhui was still alive and they had tea together every day.

“So what kind of tattoo were you thinking of getting?”

“An entire back piece. For Junhui.”

Soonyoung’s hands hesitated. Just for a second, and then he lifted his cup up to his mouth. “Let me show you my portfolio.”

“There’s no need. I’m familiar with your work. How much will it cost?”

“For you? Free.” Minghao must’ve made a face, because Soonyoung laughed through his nose. “Junhui used to make the exact same face whenever I told him that.”

“He must’ve been thinking you were gonna go out of business.”

Soonyoung smiled over the rim of the teacup. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

Minghao’s heart leapt like a fish out of water. Right into his palms. This jarring sense of dislocation, like he had experienced this feeling before. “I was thinking of a way to pay you back.”

“He used to say that too.”

 

 

 

 

 

The design was completed in the upcoming days. Ideally, it was going to take five sessions at seven hours a pop, no color. The design was a dragon curled around a missing phoenix, perpetually existing in imbalance and turmoil. What should have been a phoenix were chrysanthemums for mourning. Junhui would’ve thought it funny.

 _You bak fong jan,_ he’d say, slapping Minghao so hard on the back his heart would slam up against his ribcage. The familiar roundness of his Cantonese mixing like a drop of red in his Mandarin, coloring it forever with a lilt.  _Dragon this, phoenix that. You think you’re royalty?_

They talked about it as much as they could. Suddenly, Minghao was seeing Soonyoung everywhere. In the canteen, in the breakroom, in the hallway in passing. Soonyoung holding poster tubes beneath his armpit as he caught Minghao walking around the corner. He’d smile and flip his notebook open, showing Minghao his progress every step of the way until, at last, it was complete and Minghao found himself in Soonyoung’s room once again.

This time, Soonyoung turned the chair parallel to the table and neatly lined up pots of ink on paper towels along with a pair of gloves, a razor, and his tattoo machine. He hooked his leg around the stool beneath the table and dragged it out. 

Beneath the whirr of the AC, Minghao pulled off his shirt and draped it along the back of the chair. Took a seat and turned his head to the side to watch Soonyoung straighten out the ink pots and snap on a pair of rubber gloves.

“You nervous?” 

Minghao breathed deeply. He could feel his heartbeat accelerating. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Since this is your first tattoo, you should take as many breaks as you need.”

“Okay.”

Even with gloves, Soonyoung’s fingers were warm against Minghao’s skin. He kept his face buried in his arms. Maybe it was sad to say, but these days only the doctors touched him to see how he was recovering. He felt the razor glide over his back, the receding motion of Soonyoung’s hands until they came back again, fingers gentle and soft on his back. He wiped the area down with a wet paper towel, and then again with alcohol.

“Ready?” Soonyoung asked. 

Minghao nodded. “Yeah, let’s do it.” 

The machine whirred to life, sharp to his ears. Soonyoung brought the needle against Minghao’s skin and began working.

They talked sparsely and intermittently, mostly because he knew Soonyoung got into a headspace where nothing mattered to him but the work itself. It was what made him a good tattoo artist, a good mechanic, a wonderful friend.

Minghao kept his head down and took deep breaths. 

It wasn’t bad, it was just as he remembered from the drift. The incessant buzz of Soonyoung’s tattoo machine, and three hours later Junhui came out with his first tattoos. He got a bunch of chrysanthemums done in the brightest yellow known to humankind placed right over the curve of his shoulder. Junhui was immortalized in his mind by the brightness of his chrysanthemums shining like a spotlight onto Minghao’s fucking soul. 

He remembered Junhui’s heart beating overtime the second Soonyoung laid a hand on his shoulder blade, warm and kind. He remembered it unfurling into anxiety Junhui carried with him for years until he stepped into the conn-pod for the first time and it surged through the drift and into Minghao.

Minghao squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember Junhui’s anxiety through the drift. His voice saying tomorrow, later, after this mission.  _I’ll call Soonyoung. Maybe he’ll come to Hong Kong and I can tell him. I’ll take him out—I’ll take him to—_

“Hey,” Minghao said roughly, releasing the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Let’s eat snails after this.”

Soonyoung lifted the needle and wiped the blood away. “Sure. You know a good place?”

“Yeah, I’ll take you.”

The rest of the session passed quickly with only four breaks between the two of them. By the end, Soonyoung looked proud, and Minghao felt a little freer.

“Normally I’m really humble, right?” Soonyoung took off his gloves, balled them up, and tossed them away. “But holy shit, I really outdid myself. I’m a total genius, you look great.”

Minghao carefully pulled on his shirt. “All thanks to you.”

“Thank you.” Soonyoung got a little red, a little shy and shifty-eyed. “Let’s go eat now?”

“Yeah, grab your jacket. It’s a little cold.”

“You wanna borrow a jacket?”

“Nah,” Minghao slid his hands into his pockets. “I run hot.”

As he said it, realization slowly bloomed within him. Like the chrysanthemums on Junhui’s shoulders, spreading bright over his consciousness. Junhui ran hot. Never wore long sleeves until his family died, and even then, he sweat constantly. But that man was  _filial_ filial. Old school filial, Confucian-style filial that meant no, he couldn’t get tattooed, but if he did he’d make damn sure it was for his family. 

Minghao was the one who ran cold. Bad blood circulation—or, like his grandma said, a testament to their home’s fucked up energy. Said whoever built the place was godless. The bathroom was smackdab at the center of the house and gave Minghao perpetually cold extremities. After a childhood of bundling up, he decided he’d rather die hot than cold.

Soonyoung grabbed his jacket out of the closet, shrugged it on, and pocketed his keys and wallet. Grinned. “I’m ready to go.”

“Leave your wallet.”

Soonyoung gave him the big eyes. “What if we buy beer and they card me?”

“No way they’re carding you.”

“You’re mean!” Soonyoung tried to get him into a headlock. Weeks of muscle atrophy and Minghao could still fight Soonyoung off. “I look younger than I am, people tell me that all the time." 

“Who tells you that?” 

“The fruit lady.”

“She’s playing you, ge. That’s how you ended up with thirty mangos. Also, you’re touching my back.”

Soonyoung quickly retracted his arm and straightened up. “That’s right, I’m older than you so you should listen to me.” 

Minghao grinned and went to open the door. “Come on, leave your wallet and let’s go.”

The sun wasn’t set yet. This week saw humidity levels high up the ass and clouds as far as the eye could see, but no rain. This kind of weather made it seem like a storm was on the way, or a Kaiju. Minghao knew the war clock’s countdown by heart. They were safe for another two weeks.

They ducked through a backstreet running along the spine of a dwindling counterfeit goods market. The street markets were half of what they used to be; the lucky ones fled inland to live with extended family, but those with no family and money had no choice but to stay by the coast. It was like this globally.

Minghao could smell the smoke from the  _wok_ three streets away. Here, there were Cantonese freshwater snails for sale, so delicious it made your eyes pop out. Made you believe in God again.

The vendor was kind. He tried to give Minghao two bowls on the house, but Minghao slipped him cash as they shook hands. 

The man fried up the snails quick and handled the  _wok_ with one strong arm as he dumped in seasoning and herbs with the other. The smoke rose up like a curtain. Cleanly and easily, he tossed the snails and served them up in two paper bowls and passed them off to Minghao.

“Thank you,” Minghao and Soonyoung both said before parking themselves on the curb side to eat. 

“Actually,” Minghao glanced around and handed Soonyoung the bowls, “hold on, let me get us something to drink.”

He went across the street into a convenience store and bought a coke and two bottles of Tsingtao. He opened them at the cash register after he paid, then returned to Soonyoung. “The coke is for me, the beer is for you.”

Soonyoung looked miserable for a second. Minghao grinned and gave him the coke. “I’m kidding.”

But Soonyoung’s misery only gave way to confusion. “You know I like coke?”

“Yup. Try the beer though, pale lager goes well with the snails.” Minghao placed the beer on the ground and sat on the curbside, sucking the sauce off a snail. “Let’s eat.”

“You say that when you’re already eating.” 

Minghao grinned. He sucked the snail right out of the shell and picked out the operculum with his fingers.

Soonyoung picked up a snail and held it up to the light, turning it around. He did what Minghao did; sucked off the sauce, eyes popping out accordingly, and then sucked out the snail. Believed in God accordingly. He looked up at the sky with his mouth agape, because he would never taste something as good as this again. All food was ruined for him from here on out.

“Don’t do that.”

“I can’t help it.” Soonyoung ate another. “It’s so good.”

Between the beer and the snails, the conversation unfolded naturally. They talked about everything and anything. Soonyoung’s lack of tattoos (a promise to his grandfather, a filial grandson indeed), Minghao’s actual mishap in front of a crush ( _but you got the girl anyway,_ Soonyoung hissed as Minghao leaned against him and laughed,  _because you got game, unlike the rest of us ugly nerds_ ). Junhui.

“He missed you. Always.”

“I missed him too.” Soonyoung picked at the bottle label, the beer half gone. “I have so many regrets. We stopped talking toward the end because we just got so busy. I know it isn’t an excuse but that’s just what happened.” 

“It’s normal to drift away from friends."

“I know, but guilt doesn’t answer to logic.”

Minghao suddenly wished he had a dozen more beers.

“I wish—I wish I transferred with him here. It’s a crazy fucking thought, but sometimes I think if only I had been here, I could’ve been on Horizon’s mechanic team, I could’ve saved him. I could’ve made something for you guys. Like, I don’t know. A fucking sword. Detachable rocket fists.”

Minghao placed a hand over Soonyoung’s where he had it tightly clenched around the bottle. “Nobody could’ve done anything, believe me.”

Soonyoung sniffed, and for a while did not say anything. When he did, he shed his jacket and laid it over Minghao’s shoulders. “Your hands are cold.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Minghao warmed up to his ears instantly.

Soonyoung smiled at him, small but sincere. "How are you doing?"

“I’m like you. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for Junhui’s death, but I’m learning how to cope. I know there’s nothing I could’ve done. All I can do now is honor him the way he deserves to be honored for lack of a body.”

“The tattoo,” Soonyoung murmured.

Minghao looked out onto the street where people bustled back and forth. “Yeah. Among other things.”

“You know…I’m here for you, right? If you ever wanna talk.”

“Me too. For you.” 

They sat in comfortable silence until Soonyoung stood up and reached out both hands for Minghao to take.

Minghao looked up at him, heart rocketing up to his throat. Junhui used to reach out with both hands whenever Minghao felt misaligned. On the mats of the Combat Room, Minghao, thrown so hard on his ass he thought his spine was gonna pop out of his throat, and Junhui, reaching out with both hands for Minghao to take. Because one hand was good but Junhui was better than good. He was the most generous person Minghao had ever met.

He was always moved by the gesture, by the unwavering honesty of it, that Minghao’s pride wasn’t all that wounded after losing a match for the first time. And just like that, their partnership was sealed.

Minghao placed his hands in Soonyoung’s and allowed himself to be pulled up. 

 

 

 

 

 

The sessions came and went. With it, a familiarity Minghao knew did not belong to him.

The pain was much worse today. Soonyoung must have picked up on it. He took it slow and encouraged Minghao to take as many breaks as he needed.

“I’ve been thinking about bleaching my hair,” he said, wiping the blood away from Minghao’s skin.

Minghao exhaled. He turned his head to the side to look at Soonyoung who quietly dipped the needle into the ink pot. “You need a change?”

Soonyoung nodded and slid a hand up the nape of his neck. His hair was getting longer. 

Unconsciously, Minghao swallowed. Watching Soonyoung touch his own hair was like—recalling the memory himself, even though the memory never existed within him. Minghao flexed his grip, remembering the ghost-feel of Soonyoung’s soft hair whispering across his palm.

He clenched a fist. “If that’s what you want. But I think black hair is very charming.”

There was a smile in Soonyoung’s voice as he withdrew his hand and pressed the needle back into Minghao’s skin, pumping ink into him. “You think so?”

Minghao smiled back. Secret, into his arms. “I do.”

Later, as Soonyoung rolled off his gloves and tossed them into the trash can along with the paper towels with his eyes darting about, Minghao said, “Just say it.”

“What?”

Soonyoung’s eyes followed Minghao’s fingers as he buttoned his shirt. “You want to tell me something, so tell me.”

“You don’t know that,” he said, looking away.

“Do you want to tell me something?”

Soonyoung pursed his lips. “Well. I have a confession to make.”

Apprehensive, Minghao’s eyes drifted toward the tattoo machine. Soonyoung sputtered indignantly.

“You horse’s ass, I practice proper cleaning techniques.”

Minghao laughed. Warmth curled in his stomach, like a finger hooking his intestines, beckoning him closer. “I was kidding. What is it?”

Soonyoung somberly lifted up the flat bedsheet and revealed the cluttered mess under his bed. Just as Minghao tilted his head to get a better look at it, he suddenly remembered the time Junhui and Soonyoung shoved all their mess beneath the bottom bunk in their room in Nagasaki because, out of nowhere, Soonyoung was about to get laid.

Junhui had felt jealousy at the time, so poisonous it made his head turn in shame.

“You’re a fraud.” 

“I am,” Soonyoung said in fake remorse. “Whenever you come over I just shove everything under my bed." 

“What are you, eight?”

“I’m just saying, the next time you come, it’s gonna be a mess.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll come to my room?”

“And move my equipment around? No chance.” Soonyoung grinned. “Aren’t you happy? I can show you my mess now that we’ve reached another level of friendship.”

“Is there an undo button somewhere? I don’t want this.”

Soonyoung laughed and dropped the bedsheet. “Nope.”

 

 

 

 

 

Three days ahead of schedule, another category four breached the rift and brought lightning with it.

Codename Mutavore, this ugly fuck was mutated  _indeed._ It made up for what it lacked in looks in fucking eyeballs. It had six, three on each side, and destroyed Q1 in seconds. Tallest building in Australia and Mutavore broke through that shit like it was made of toothpicks. Striker Eureka cut its throat and sprayed arterial blood across the capital, painting it cartoonish blue, bright in the dark.

Minghao took one look at the TV in the canteen and went straight back to his room. He locked the door, closed the lights, and hid under the covers like he was six again with only the  _blamblamblam_ of his heart to keep him company.

He stayed under the covers for so long that, when the knocking on his front door brought him out of bed, he saw the clock already came full circle. He felt it in his stomach.

The knocking came again. Gentle, if knocking on a steel door could ever sound anything other than ominous.

Minghao dragged himself out of bed and peered through the peephole. From the fisheye lens, he saw Soonyoung fidgeting on his doorstep. Minghao unlatched the door and opened it. 

“Yeah?” he croaked, squinting from the brightness of the hallway.

“Haven’t seen you all day,” Soonyoung said, nearly shy like he wasn’t expecting Minghao to actually come to the door.

Minghao leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. “Missed me?"

Soonyoung went slightly pink. "No. I was just worried."

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t really. “Thanks for checking on me.”

Soonyoung stared at him for a long while, like he knew he wasn’t fine. It wasn’t hard to figure out. If he felt like shit, then he must have looked like shit too. “Are you busy?”

“It’s midnight.”

“Wanna come with me to the breakroom?”

Sleep seemed impossible. Peace too. His head was stuffy from lying in bed all day, his heart felt raw.

“Yeah okay,” he heard himself say.

In the breakroom, Soonyoung made him earl grey and fed him chocolate. This insanely sweet chalky bar that made Minghao’s tongue feel like it was shrinking in on itself. Stupidly, while Melbourne was half-destroyed and entirely polluted, he hoped he wouldn’t get a cavity from this. He didn’t know where to get his teeth fixed.

The bergamot brought a little feeling back to his brain too. After Junhui ran out of  _gut po,_ he begrudgingly started drinking earl grey. The taste of citrus always made him feel brighter, especially living in the metal deathtrap that was the Shatterdome. It negated the darkness of the base.

Soonyoung refilled his cup. The steam curled around his nose. “Feel better?”

“Yeah,” Minghao said, the paper cup warming up the heart of his hands. “Thank you.”

"Don't thank me yet. It gets better."

Soonyoung demonstrated innovation worthy of a promotion. He took two oranges from the canteen and wrote the missing cue ball numbers on them in marker, gingerly arranging them in the billiard rack once the ink dried. 

Minghao twisted two halves of the cue stick together and handed it to Soonyoung. “You’re a genius.”

“This is what I went to school for.” Soonyoung stuck the orange stickers on Minghao’s arm.

“Man, I’m so glad you went to school.”

Soonyoung laughed and nudged Minghao with the cue stick. “You go first.” 

“I’m still injured so this should be a breeze for you."

It wasn’t. Minghao was lining up the shot on his forth ball while Soonyoung was still on his first. Soonyoung stooped low at the opposite end of the table, aligning himself with Minghao’s eyesight. “You liar. Aren’t you supposed to be injured?”

Minghao breathed through his nose, trying not to laugh. “You’re just bad at this.”

“And you have no manners. Guess you can’t really have it all—”

Minghao hit the ball hard. It bounced off the corner of the table and into the orange, sinking it into the net right in front of Soonyoung’s face. “Maybe you should focus on winning instead of talking shit.”

“Hey! I fed you,” Soonyoung said, dramatically clutching a fist. “You should go easy on me.”

This time, Minghao really did laugh. “It’s your turn.” 

Soonyoung pushed Minghao away from the table using the cue stick. “Step aside, loser.”

They switched positions. From the other end of the table, he watched Soonyoung lean forward to sink the 7-ball. Eyes low, he tilted his head slightly and guided the cue stick between his fingers. His hair fell over his eyes, the intensity of his concentration striking Minghao as next level, out of this  _world_  sexy. He didn't have a chance to think about how unlike him the thought was; Soonyoung made his first shot and the cue balls clacked loudly against each other. He cheered.

Still, Minghao won. His prize? Peeling the oranges. He peeled around the marker but it still smeared over his thumb and left a ghostly gray streak.

Soonyoung tilted the chair back precariously and stuffed an orange slice into his mouth. His tea was lukewarm by now, the tea bag still steeping.

“I’m thinking of joining J-tech again,” Minghao said. He began peeling the second orange.

“Yeah? I hear you got your start in J-tech.”

“I did, but that was years ago when it was still developing. I have a lot to catch up on.”

“You don’t want to pilot anymore?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to. I just can’t do it.” He held the half-peeled orange in his hand. For the first time in a long while, he felt stupid. “I miss Junhui _._ When I woke up, I was still delirious from the drugs. In that delirium, I had this childlike want, that single-minded intensity that we have as children. It felt like if I believed this strongly, wanted Junhui back that badly, it would come true. But of course it didn’t. I can't do that again.”

Soonyoung wiped a sleeve over his eyes.

“Are you crying?” Minghao said, slightly incredulous. He’d been stuck with these thoughts for so long that they stopped making him cry. He just felt a constant hollow sadness, a buzz of loneliness beneath his skin.

“Yeah,” Soonyoung said before sobbing, small and broken. He stood, leaned over the table, and slung an arm across Minghao’s shoulders, holding him tight. “I felt the same way.”

Just as Soonyoung held him, a memory slammed into Minghao—

Junhui didn’t return to Hong Kong with him after Shenzhen. They parted ways at the helipad, Junhui stepping back from the helicopter as the rotor blades slowly began turning. They held hands, Minghao’s grip tight till the very end.

“I’ll see you at home,” Minghao said, voice unwavering over the sound of the helicopter.

Junhui nodded, because if he spoke anymore his voice would crack, skip, break into tears.

All Minghao knew was that Junhui needed to return to Nagasaki. He didn’t know until the drift that Junhui went to see Soonyoung, that Junhui’s helicopter landed and Soonyoung was right there, waiting for him on the helipad. 

Junhui got out of the helicopter. The sight of Soonyoung’s face, so kind and open, a face that he loved so much, brought him to tears immediately. Soonyoung hugged him the moment he stepped out, Junhui crying into his neck, wrapping an arm around Soonyoung's waist just as Minghao did now.

Minghao shut his eyes tight, trying not to cry himself. They stayed like that until Minghao loosened his grip and rubbed Soonyoung’s back, thinking,  _I can see why Junhui loved you like he did. It’s hard not to._  

“It’s okay,” he murmured, “don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” Soonyoung cried. “I’m sweating.”

Minghao pat his back. “My bad. Stop sweating.”

 

 

 

 

 

Of course, the question had to be,

What next?

Minghao still had limited movement in his left shoulder, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t fight. Barely, not nearly enough to cut it in the cockpit, but he still had potential and that was all the PPDC cared about. They didn’t invest so much money into him just to cut him loose the second he got injured; they weren’t so eager to get him back out there either, not with his fucked-up rotator cuff and the obvious mental distress splattered across his wellness report like a bloodstain.

The Combat Room at midnight was predictably empty. All his for about ten minutes until the heavy metal door creaked open and someone entered.

Stacker Pentecost in a word? Stalwart. There wasn’t a man in existence with a straighter spine, not a man who could match him in severity, in solemnity, and in intimidation. He could send a pacemaker on the fritz just by leveling his eyes on you.

Minghao knew Pentecost before he became Marshal. Before Mako and the cancer, when he was miserable in Germany and making sure the neural bridge controls made it to final development, Minghao equally miserable because the food kicked his ass for a straight year. They used to spar and talk shit about the PPDC in Mandarin over Jägermeister, but that was seven years ago. Several years worth of loss ago for the both of them.

“Rare to see you awake past eleven,” Pentecost said, hands clasped behind his back as he slowly walked the perimeter of the arena.

Minghao kept his eyes straight. “Rarer still to see you off the clock.”

He slid his foot forward along the gray rubber mats, keeping the wooden staff steady in his hands as he swung it swiftly and pointed it toward the ground. The strain was already building in his shoulder.

Pentecost stopped at the front of the room where he normally stood to evaluate recruits, hands still clasped firmly behind his back. “I received your report from Dr. Jeon. You no longer seem interested in being a pilot.”

“I haven’t given it enough thought,” Minghao lied.

“It’s wartime, Mister Xu. No such luxury as time.”

Minghao tried to spin the staff in his hands, but mid-spin his shoulder locked and pain shot all the way up his neck. The staff fell dully onto the mats. “No, but you have your pick of the world’s finest recruits.”

“The coma did a number on you, otherwise you’d know an experienced pilot is much more valuable to me.”

Minghao squeezed his eyes shut.

Soldiering a month of near crushing despair changed him in ways he hated. Like a mutant existing in Ground Zero, living in radiation levels so high it liquefied a normal person’s flesh, liquefied fucking  _atoms,_ if that were possible. But to people who were used to that level of pain and exposure, they just got used to another way of living. Grew horns, eyes, lost a set of  _gao wan_ , sacrifices made for living in poisonous land.

The thought of getting in another Jaeger was unbearable. He didn’t care what Dr. Jeon said—that it was normal, the Jaeger itself was a trigger, let alone a Kaiju. But in his mind, it had to be him. He had the experience and the know-how, and it was easier to replace one pilot instead of two. If he really wanted humankind to persevere, he’d get his ass back in a Jaeger and fight. But he couldn’t, and that was the worst part. He was losing control of himself.

“Can’t,” he grit, tossing the staff into the air using the top of his foot. He caught it in his non-injured hand. “I want to, but I can’t.”

Minghao made sure to look Pentecost in the eye. As always, he looked vaguely disgruntled.

“We aren’t desperate yet,” Pentecost said, voice heavy. “If you change your mind, you know you’re preferred.”

“What’s desperate look like?”

The edge of Pentecost’s lip curled upward in a slight sneer. “When Newton Geiszler becomes head of K-Science.”

“I said desperate, not hopeless.”

Pentecost’s sneer cracked into a smile. “Whether you decide to retire from piloting or not, you’ll always be on my list. If things become hopeless, I will come find you. And I will convince you.”

Slowly, Minghao began to spin the staff once more. “I have my sense of duty too, Marshal. I’d come back on my own.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Pentecost silently shedding his uniform jacket and untying his oxfords. He rolled his shirt sleeves up to the elbow and walked onto the mat. They never actually talked about Junhui’s death, but Minghao figured this was his way of saying,  _I commiserate. Now, since there’s nothing I can say to make things better, I will proceed to beat the sadness out of you._ He stood stone-still in the low light, face severe.

“You know, I've still never beat you before.” Minghao placed the staff down and widened his stance.

"Yeah, and you never will."

Minghao came swinging hard and fast, but Pentecost was even faster. Dude spent the day pushing papers and still knew how to play the mats.

 

 

 

 

 

Minghao laid supine in Soonyoung’s bed. Soonyoung followed shortly after, throwing himself face down with a heavy sigh.

“Did Pentecost kick your ass too?” Minghao was pretty sure he had internal bleeding, or a broken coccyx.

“No. The Kaidonovskys don’t like my rocket fists, which is fine since they’re the ones who have to actually use it.” He turned onto his back and sighed again. “Maybe I should give the blueprints to Crimson Typhoon’s mechanics.”

“The Wei Tang brothers would love rocket fists.”

“Would you have liked it?”

Minghao stared at the side of Soonyoung’s face. “It’s kind of too flashy for me.”

“Too flashy?” Soonyoung parroted, the pliant tiredness of him sinking deeper into rest. “You’re walking around in a building come to life and rocket fists are too flashy?”

“I like being inconspicuous.”

Soonyoung laughed, loud and bright. “Bullshit.”

That shit about internal bleeding? Completely true. Watching Soonyoung, hearing him laugh, Minghao seriously felt his blood seeping into his lungs. And when Soonyoung turned his head, eyes obsidian black in the dim light, he was certain he had a pulmonary embolism. His chest tightened, an entire constriction of the ribcage.

Soonyoung smiled at him, and Minghao knew. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Minghao lied.

Of course, it wasn’t internal bleeding and it definitely wasn’t a pulmonary embolism, otherwise he would've gone straight from Soonyoung's room to med bay. Instead, he climbed over Soonyoung's legs to get out of his bed. "I'm actually really tired today. Can we reschedule the session for another time?"

Soonyoung propped himself up on an elbow and watched Minghao gather his things. His keys, his access card. "I don't mind. You don't wanna just chill?"

"Uhm," Minghao said, and then tried not to cringe because he never said uhm. "Not today, sorry."

It felt like Soonyoung was a little disappointed, but he didn't say anything. "Okay. See you later then."

Minghao got out of there quick and closed the door behind him.

This was the real deal. This shit, no medicine could ever cure you of it, and doctors  _tried._ This was romance.

He forgot what it felt like, but Junhui could’ve told him right at its conception. He could’ve identified it even with his eyes closed. He would’ve said,  _just because something doesn’t have a name doesn’t mean you can’t feel it._

But just because you felt something didn’t make it right either. Minghao knew immediately, upon giving these feelings a name, that it was wrong.

The more they drifted, the more they became a single entity, acting as one even outside the neural bridge. It was common between pilots, but it was never like this, transferring a love so strong Minghao began to feel it as his own. It was possible that he liked Soonyoung regardless of Junhui, but he doubted it. He would never.

Before the drift, Minghao’s self-control was off the charts. He was all about control and discipline. If he wanted to protect people, self-reliance was key above all else. He trained all the softness out of himself. But Junhui was all softness, pure intuition and understanding, that jumping into the drift with him had been like returning to a more forgiving version of himself.

If he had liked Soonyoung months ago, he could’ve stopped the feelings before they had the chance to develop. Now, it was too late.

 

 

 

 

 

Cherno looked gray and monolithic in the blue lights as though she walked into being straight from stone. They sat on the catwalk with their feet hanging 40-meters above ground, drinking cans of chilled grass jelly while admiring her. Out of all the Jaegers, she reminded him of Horizon the most. Secretly, it was because they both looked like goldfish.

Soonyoung chewed on his straw and stared up at Cherno, eyes big. Minghao snuck a glance at him. The image of Soonyoung encased in blue light gripped him, like he'd give anything to be the light on Soonyoung's face, embracing him all at once, everywhere at once. 

He dipped his head and squeezed the can between his thighs. He didn’t know what to do anymore, couldn't even hold a conversation without slipping back into his head. His replies were so short that even Soonyoung didn't know what to say. He stopped making conversation, but Minghao could see him shift nervously from his periphery.

Still, Soonyoung braved the silence and walked him back to his room. It was closer than his own room that was clear across the living quarters.

Minghao went up to his door. Soonyoung fidgeted at the base of the steps, probably from the way Minghao was unintentionally staring him down. Something just overtook him in that moment, he wanted to see Soonyoung squirm more. “This wasn’t a date. I hope you’re not expecting a goodnight kiss.” 

Soonyoung stopped fidgeting. He stared, then burned. Combusted up to the tips of his ears. “I wasn't! I just wanted to thank you for the grass jelly.” 

Minghao’s mouth went dry. “Oh. You’re welcome.”

"I'll, uhm, bring you something next time."

"Right. Next time."

"Goodnight."

Minghao watched as Soonyoung walked off in the wrong direction, a redness spreading up the back of his neck and ears.

 

 

 

 

 

Back in Dr. Jeon’s office, Minghao said, “My dreams are still vivid.”

“Tell me about them.” 

Mostly, he dreamt as Junhui. He dreamt he was at the bottom of the ocean. The sun was so strong it penetrated the depth of the sea with its light, but not its warmth. It was perpetually cold.

Sometimes, if he wasn’t dreaming about awakening at the bottom of the ocean, he dreamt of digging through the rubble of Junhui’s home, the city unrecognizable. His hands bled from lifting concrete and roofing, the sound of his crying agonizing, echoing through muted, smoky air. No body to bury but his own. When he turned around, he saw that Minghao was holding his mother’s jewelry box in his hands.

He remembered it so intensely. Junhui, on his knees, had slowly risen up to take the box from his hands.

“In my dreams,” Minghao said lowly, “we are one and the same.”

“Did you experience this feeling to the same degree in person?”

“No. Outside the neural bridge, I could always differentiate between his feelings and my own. It wasn’t like we were becoming the same person or anything, but now it feels different than just picking up some of his qualities. Ever since I got ripped out of the neural bridge, it feels like his feelings are seeping into me, that I'm actually changing as a person. Sometimes I experience emotions or sensations that I know don’t belong to me. That never happened before.”

Dr. Jeon wrote something down. “Do you want to differentiate between your feelings and his?” 

Minghao blinked rapidly down at the table, eyes wet at the edges. Trust Dr. Jeon to hit where it hurts. "If I stay this way, I can keep him with me forever."

“But it’s possible that the effects of the neural bridge will fade. What will you do then?”

This was the sort of thing he used to worry about. A consummate planner, his calendar was color-coded up until the day Junhui died.

“I’m not worried,” Minghao said, and because he said it, it became that much truer. “I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

It was fucked up, it was shameful, to like Soonyoung. Junhui loved him for all of eight years and never confessed. Minghao couldn’t even chalk it up to the drift. He was never truly powerless, it was hard to exist in the world without having something to do with it.

But he vowed to himself that he would keep Junhui. That he would live the rest of his life honoring him and keeping every part of him. Every strand of hair, every razor. Everything he ever touched and loved.

Immediately after the session ended, Minghao knocked on Soonyoung’s door and stepped back. From below the doorstep, he looked up at Soonyoung emerging from his room, hair tousled from sleep and eyes squinting to adjust to the sudden brightness.

“It wasn’t a date,” Minghao said. “But I wish it had been.”

 

 

 

 

 

Coincidentally, Minghao’s feelings and the weather culminated at the same time. And then, just as the heat crested, the AC died. The wet heat seeped into the base until every reflective surface became foggy.

The fourth session was the worst thus far. Today, Minghao laid on Soonyoung’s bed. The angle was better for shading his ribs and lower back. He felt bad for sweating on Soonyoung’s bed, but after two hours the pain surpassed whatever reservations he had.

Minghao squeezed his eyes shut and hid in his arms. His skin was sensitive to the touch, the vibration of the machine a straight line to his brain, like plucking a neural guitar string. 

“Let’s take a break,” Soonyoung said, lifting the needle away. He wiped the sweat away from his pink face with a towel. “It’s so hot even my eyelids are sweating.”

“You’re so talented.”

Soonyoung stuck his nose in the air. “That’s right.” And then he laughed. “I’m kidding, I think you’re much cooler than I am.”

“I don't think so."

Soonyoung pulled off his gloves and grabbed water from the fridge. He passed a bottle to Minghao who sighed and pressed it to his mouth.

“You confessed so fearlessly,” Soonyoung said, uncapping the bottle. He wouldn’t make eye contact. “I thought that was very cool.”

Realization hit Minghao. The redness to Soonyoung’s cheeks that he initially chalked up to the heat, that wasn’t it at all. 

“Is that why you’re blushing?”

“I mean. You confessed to me. Don’t you—” Soonyoung swallowed, “wanna hear my answer?”

Minghao stared at him for too long without speaking. With every second, Soonyoung’s blush turned darker. Finally, he smiled.

“I know your answer.”

Soonyoung turned his head away, embarrassed, but he couldn't hide the undeniable blush spreading up to his ears. He drank half the bottle in one go and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Break's over, let's continue."

The next five hours passed quickly. Painfully, but quickly. Soonyoung must’ve felt the quickness of his heart from his back. At the end of the session, Minghao sat up and watched Soonyoung wipe his face. The sweat gathered on his cupid’s bow, glistening. He wanted to lick it off.

“I have lychee in the fridge if you want to stay.” 

Minghao looked up at Soonyoung, unwavering in his conviction, the intensity of his emotions scorching his own heart. “You should know I’m not playing around. I’m serious about you.”

Soonyoung licked his lips. “What, uhm, an auspicious day. I am also serious about you.”

“Auspicious?” Minghao laughed. “You’re a smooth talker.”

"You have a strange idea of what smooth talking is."

“I don't.” And he held out his hand, inviting Soonyoung to come over. 

Soonyoung took it.

Being with Soonyoung was like—a great cosmic imbalance. If one good thing deserved another, then all the goodness Minghao did in this lifetime and the last wasn’t enough to justify having Soonyoung. In the dim light of his room, his mouth was warm and wet on Minghao’s skin. His mouth fell open in a low moan as Minghao held him down and in place and fucked into him slowly, evenly, unblinkingly. Just perfect on the stroke. He curled a hand around Minghao’s bicep, mouth bitten red.

Fuck, maybe it was creepy, and it was definitely, one-hundred percent  _him,_ but Minghao didn’t blink or close his eyes for nothing. He wanted it all, wishing for the first time in his life that he had a photographic memory and whatever the taste, smell, hearing, touch equivalent was. He wanted to condense this moment into something physical, something he could hold in his hands forever.

“I’m gonna cum like this,” Soonyoung gasped, circling his fingers around the base of his cock. “Can I ride you?”

Minghao sat back. Watching Soonyoung line his cock up to his asshole and sink down made him feel like a virgin again.

Soonyoung grinded slow in his lap, arms wrapped loosely around his neck. They were both panting from the humid air—it was too hot to fuck, too hot to move, too hot to even  _think_ about moving. Shit was like fucking at the bottom of the ocean, at the bottom of a sauna, pounds of water pressing down on them. Sweat stuck them together.

The sweat from Soonyoung’s hair dripped onto Minghao’s collarbone. It would’ve been gross if it weren’t so sexy. 

Minghao wiped the sweat from his forehead. “You’re about to drown in sweat,” he said fondly. “Gross.”

Soonyoung dug his nails into Minghao’s shoulders, careful to avoid his back. “Shut up, I can’t help it.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” Minghao licked the sweat from Soonyoung’s pulse, feeling his ass tighten around his cock.

They took it slow and easy, rocking their hips together. Soonyoung’s cock hot against Minghao’s stomach. His pupils were blown wide and his eyes were glazed over, and they fluttered when Minghao kissed him.

"I like you," Soonyoung said, both hands on Minghao's face, kissing him open-mouthed, kissing him reverently. "I like you so much."

Minghao thoughts burst bright and vivid in his mind as Soonyoung came— _I’m gonna keep you if you’ll let me. Please, let me. You can have me too._

 

  

 

 

 

When at last the tattoo was finished, Minghao felt lighter. Itchier, definitely, and less hurt all the time, like he was one strong wind from being blown away. Junhui was a part of him forever. He’d miss him, forever. Would have taken care of his grave. Swept it, every day. He was slowly starting to take care of himself again too. Because there was no greater affront to his parents, to Junhui and Soonyoung, than neglecting his body.

The weirdest shit started happening too—after a while, Minghao started wanting to take care of his body for himself. The future started looking bright, he started retraining to enter J-tech again. Hope grew in his chest. Loss was still loss, but it wasn’t capital LOSS, that constant grip on the psyche that reminded him of bareness and abnormality.

Of course, some days were better than others. It wasn’t like the rift shut magically. In fact, Kaiju were appearing at faster intervals and looking freakier than ever.

Other days? True bliss. 

At its best, sex was all about experiencing miracles, but the true miracle was experiencing the little daily intimacies. Laying in Soonyoung’s bed with a book on Jaeger technology splayed open on his chest as he watched Soonyoung floss through the open door of his bathroom and snap on his retainers. Kissing him and tasting his mint toothpaste, licking the artificial palate of his retainer and hearing him lisp in protest.

Inviting Soonyoung into his room. Quietly laying together on the bottom bunk and looking up at the underside of the top bunk that had once belonged to Junhui.

He was sleeping better; a regular sleep pattern returned to him. He stopped dreaming exclusively of destruction and Junhui, but whenever Junhui made a special appearance in his dreams, he was always swimming. The back of his shirt dipping into the water the further he walked into the ocean before exclaiming,  _it's cold,_ and diving in anyway. His flesh cutting neatly through the surface like a blade.

His clothes always resurfaced before he did, and the waves brought it to Minghao’s ankles. It wrapped around him like seaweed. Junhui’s head bobbed up seconds later, far off in the ocean, a grin clear and bright on his face. He waved.

Minghao waved back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> my love letter to pacific rim, even though i had to write this to make up for how badly the sequel failed me.


End file.
